


Unpartnered

by SheilaPaulson



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-18
Updated: 2013-02-18
Packaged: 2017-11-29 19:04:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/690398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SheilaPaulson/pseuds/SheilaPaulson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim finds the loft in disarray, traces of blood, and Blair missing. Is it the work of a man he sent to prison?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unpartnered

Sandburg wasn't home; Jim could tell that even before he fitted his key in the door. It was just past five o'clock and Sandburg's last class at Rainier had finished up at three. No sound came from the apartment, not even the reassuring thump of Sandburg's heartbeat to suggest he was sleeping, and the Volvo hadn't been parked outside. Jim unlocked the door, and then stopped before he could open it, his nose wrinkling. Unfamiliar scents disturbed him, an aftershave he didn't recognize, the stale-ashtray stink that indicated a heavy smoker had invaded the loft while he was out. Sandburg's friends didn't usually smoke, but there were bound to be one or two exceptions. Sandburg wouldn't let them actually smoke in the loft--part of the house rules--but enough of the reek would linger on their clothing for Jim to find it distasteful. Part of the downside of being a Sentinel.

Cutting through the smoke scent was another one, a familiar coppery tang. Blood. Not much blood, but enough to identify, now that his senses had focused on smell. He drew his weapon before he thrust open the door, then lowered it again. No one was there now. He'd know. He'd hear their breathing, their heartbeats, no matter how quiet invaders would try to be.

No one was there, but someone had been. The couch lay turned over on its back and a chair was broken. Looked like there'd been a struggle. He flashed back briefly to the sight of the loft after David Lash had snatched Sandburg. Had he been taken again? His muscles tightened as he scanned the disrupted room for evidence.

"Sandburg!" The cry came involuntarily. If Sandburg were here, he wasn't breathing and his heart wasn't beating. But there was no smell to indicate a dead Sandburg. All that remained was this minimal damage and a dishtowel dotted with blood draped across the broken chair as if it had been tossed away.

Jim snatched it. Not enough blood to suggest a major injury but enough to indicate some trauma. Blair's blood. He went deep into his focus to be sure, and shivered back from a near zone-out. No time to zone now. It was Sandburg's blood. There had been a fight, Sandburg had been hurt, and now he was gone. Jim couldn't assume that he'd won the fight, driven out the invaders, and then taken off for the Emergency Room without so much as leaving a note. That meant he had been grabbed.

Jim stared around the room, then he took out his cell phone and called Simon. "I need a crime scene team out here now. Somebody's been here and snatched Sandburg."

The loft phone rang then, shrilly, as if someone had waited and watched to see when he came home. "Just a minute," he said over Simon's exclamation, and carefully picked up the other phone to avoid messing with fingerprints. "Ellison," he barked into it.

"Ah, yes, Detective James Ellison." The silky purr of the voice on the other end of the line jarred his senses. The speaker sounded smug, amused. "You're not missing something, are you? A certain long-haired hippie police observer? How distressing."

Jim's muscles clenched. "Who is this?" He held the cell phone up beside his ear to allow Simon to listen in.

"Does that matter? What matters to me is that you suffer. You made me suffer enough. Now it's my turn. This is payback."

"Don't jack me around. Where's Sandburg?"

"Oh, just off visiting. Didn't you notice his car was gone?" The voice sounded vaguely familiar, but Jim couldn't pin it down. If Sandburg were here, he could coach Jim through the process of remembering where he'd heard it, but the whole point of the matter was that Sandburg wasn't here. Off visiting? Not damned likely. At least not by choice. Maybe they'd removed him in his own car.

"What do you want?" Jim demanded. He ground his teeth. There weren't enough clues here yet for him to track Sandburg. He needed everything he could get.

"Why, simply for you to suffer, Detective. What more could I want? I won't harm a hair of your head. I've had my people check you out, and they tell me it will cause you far more pain if I take your little long-haired friend away, make him suffer, and then make him die--very slowly--than if I hurt you personally." He chortled in sheer delight. "Because, make no bones about it, Ellison, I want you to suffer." The phone clicked neatly as the creep hung up. He'd kept it short, even though the timing of the call suggested he knew Jim had just returned home and that there had been no time to put a trace on the line.

"Simon?" Jim prompted. "Did you get any of that?"

"I heard enough to know that someone has Sandburg. Did you recognize the voice, Jim?"

"I feel like I should. It was familiar but I couldn't pin it down. Whoever he is, he must have sent some thugs over to snatch Sandburg. The living room's messed up and I found a cloth with Sandburg's blood on it. Not a lot of blood, but some."

"Well, don't touch anything else until the forensics team gets there. Sounds like whoever took the kid is a pro, but you never know. We might get lucky with a fingerprint or some other evidence. Wait outside. Don't contaminate the scene."

"I want to see what's missing from Sandburg's room." Jim caught himself. Simon was right. That would have to wait. He could inadvertently blot out the one clue that would lead them to his guide. In spite of his Sentinel abilities, and the fact that he might pick up something forensics missed, he knew better than to take even one slight risk with Sandburg's life. "Okay. I'll wait in the hall. Just have them hurry."

"Already on their way, Jim, and I'll head over there myself." He hesitated. "We'll find him," he said, but Jim heard the faint thread of doubt in Captain Banks' voice. Yes, they'd find him--eventually. But they might not find him in time. They might find his body instead.

Don't you die on me, Sandburg. Don't you dare die. You hang on, you hear me?

 

*****

 

"Nothing," Jim snorted in disgust when the forensics team had departed. They'd removed what little evidence they could for testing, satisfied themselves that the loft or Jim's phone hadn't been bugged and gone away again. "Just a big fat lot of nothing. They even took his car, unless he left it at the University...." No, the guy on the phone had pretty much said they'd taken the car, too. Jim had called Blair's office just in case the whole thing was a hoax--not very likely with the blood and the state of the loft, but he had to cover all the bases. He hadn't expected a response there, and he didn't get one. He manhandled the couch upright and tested it to make sure it wasn't damaged. At least the phone had a trace on it now. Next time the guy called, they'd start the process of getting him. He'd know enough to suspect it; he'd keep his calls short, but every little bit they could get would help. Even pinning down the general area. If he could get to the right place, he could focus as hard as possible and try to pick up on Sandburg's heartbeat. Knowing Sandburg, he'd expect Jim to come looking. Every time he was alone, he'd talk to Jim, knowing that eventually Jim would be close enough to hear him. He was too inventive, too smart, too stubborn to give up without trying. He'd never given up, not when Lash had him and he believed he was about to die, not when he was trapped in an elevator with a bomb.

But against who knew how many armed men, bound and possibly gagged, he might not have any options, not even an opportunity to fast-talk his way out of the situation.

Simon frowned. The way he watched Jim, he was probably assessing Jim's reaction, expecting him to blow up. "Not true, Jim. A few hair samples that we'll be able to compare if we get whoever did this. There weren't any fingerprints on the knife except for Sandburg's, but there were smears on it from whoever handled it, covering up a few of Sandburg's fingerprints."

Jim winced. They'd found the butcher knife in the sink. Someone had rinsed it off, but the forensics boys had detected lingering traces of blood on the blade. The bastards had stabbed Sandburg with Jim's kitchen knife. When he got his hands on them....

It wouldn't be smart to let Banks pick up on that thought. "Whoever did this was hired muscle," Jim snorted. "That guy on the phone wasn't likely to dirty his own hands."

"You don't remember where you heard his voice?"

Jim ran a hand through his hair. "I'll get it. If Sandburg were here, he could coach me through it." He made an impatient gesture and bent to restore the chair to its place. "Damn it, Simon, if Sandburg were here, I wouldn't have to remember."

"Somebody has it in for you, Jim. That must tie it to one of your cases. We can check, see who got out of prison recently. If you look at some names, maybe you'll remember who it was."

Yeah, he could do that. It wouldn't be nearly as satisfying as charging out to rescue Sandburg--but what good would that do if he didn't know in which direction to charge? Sandburg was in trouble because of Jim. He wouldn't leave Blair in that sadistic bastard's hands one second longer than necessary. "I could try to focus on the sound and see if I can trace back the memory."

Simon's brow wrinkled. "This won't put you in one of those zone-outs, will it?"

Jim frowned. He knew he couldn't afford a zone-out, not when Sandburg was gone. Sandburg had taught him enough control that the zone-out factor was less of an issue these days, although not impossible. With Sandburg as his partner, that particular crisis was far less likely to occur, but with Blair missing.... "It could," he admitted reluctantly.

"Listen, Jim, I'm no guide. I can't do what the kid does. If it happens, I'll try to shake you out of it, but I'm not sure it would be good enough. We can get Connor over here. You said she knows. Maybe she could help."

Jim shook his head. The other detectives at Major Crimes would have to know about Sandburg's abduction--and if he thought it would save Sandburg's life, he'd risk them finding out about his senses. But the last thing he wanted was to go off into a trance in front of anyone else, even if Megan Connor now knew the truth about Jim's senses. Jim was pretty sure Joel Taggart had an inkling, too. All the detectives who had been there at the fountain knew there was something about Jim, and it made him uncomfortable. Most of the time, the other detectives didn't react to it, but let the least hint of a heightened sense appear and he could pick up on awareness, interest. He'd seen Rafe and Brown exchange a few glances in the weeks since the incident.

Weeks.... It hadn't been that long since Sandburg had died, for crying out loud. He was all right now; his doctor had given him a clean bill of health. But he might not yet be at full strength, and too much strain on his system.... If the jerk who had ordered Blair snatched knew about the drowning, he might well take advantage of it. The doctor had said Sandburg should take care; after a drowning, a person might be more susceptible to pneumonia. Jim had blown up at Sandburg when he came home in a rainstorm dripping wet last week. "Where's your brain, Einstein? Do you want to wind up in intensive care?"

Sandburg had grinned at him. "Yes, Mommy. I'll be a good little boy and have a nice hot shower. Want to make me some herbal tea? Get a pillow for my feet?" He'd been deliberately pushing, but the words had made Jim squelch a smile.

"When the pickup can fly," he'd snorted, but he had made the tea. He'd come so close to losing his guide, his best friend. It was too soon for a second such risk. He knew exactly what it felt like to lose his friend. He couldn't handle it a second time.

The creeps who had grabbed Sandburg hadn't hesitated to use a knife on him. What were they using now? Jim shuddered at the thought of a video tape arriving in the mail with graphic images of Blair being tortured. That purring voice belonged to a man who would relish both the torture and Jim's reaction to it.

And he'd want to see that reaction. He'd known when Jim came home.

"He's got me under surveillance," he growled. "That call was too well-timed. He's out there, or someone is who reports to him, and he can see into this room."

Simon's eyes widened. "Maybe not, Jim. Maybe someone watching the building reported to him when you got home."

"Or maybe somebody's out there with high-powered binoculars." He measured the distance from the phone to the window. Then he strode over to the balcony and stepped out. The sun was still well above the horizon, and the day's earlier threat of rain had fizzled out. Off to the west, the clouds had thinned to allow the sun to touch the tops of buildings as it made its way to the horizon. It was seven-thirty. Nearly two more hours of daylight remained.

"This character can't know I'm a Sentinel," Jim said, his back to the vista beyond the balcony. If he were being watched, he wouldn't put it past his observers to know how to read lips. He hadn't been facing the windows when he'd talked to Simon about his Sentinel abilities, and he refused to give any hints now. "I'll focus on any building with line-of-sight to the phone. Let them think I'm out here freaking about Sandburg. If I can pin them down you can send somebody over to grab them."

"Good idea, Jim. What do you want me to do?"

"Just stand here. I'll be focused on sight. If I start to zone, poke me in the ribs. If that doesn't work keep doing it, talk to me, shake me, drag me inside. I don't think I'll zone, but I can't take the chance, not with Sandburg out there depending on me. He knows I'll find him, Simon."

"I know it, too, Jim. I'm not sure I want you on the street on this one, though. You're too involved."

"Damn it, Captain, I have to be involved. I'm the one who can find him." Banks might lay down some ground rules, but Jim knew he needed to be part of the investigation.

"Jim, there are other ways you can help. If you can't spot anybody now, I'll try to talk you through this memory gig. But check this out first. It sounds like an elaborate plot. Soon as you finish this, we'll find out who might have been released from prison, go over some of your old cases to see who might have a grudge against you. But I don't want you out there playing loose cannon. We want to convict the guy."

"We want to get Sandburg back in one piece," Jim growled, and whirled back.

The task should have looked impossible, but he'd done this kind of thing before. With Blair's coaching, he'd located the 'forest in the sky' when the Chopec had come to Cascade. If someone had him under surveillance, he'd find them. So many buildings spread out before him. Mentally he erased the ones that were totally out of the picture, then he started dead center, the Kraymer Building. Offices, mostly shut down for the night. Focus. Focus. Beside him, Simon wrapped his fingers around Jim's wrist. That would help to ground him.

Most of the windows proved empty of anything but desks and office furniture. One of them, near the top floor revealed a man and woman in the process of tearing off their clothes as they made their way to a couch on the far side of the executive office. A little after-hours nookie, fringe benefits of the job. Jim shrugged and moved on to the next window.

Wait! What was that? Looked like a high-power monocular mounted on a tripod. It wasn't aimed toward the loft, though, but pointed in the direction of the harbor. The office was empty. Maybe somebody got a charge out of watching boats. A professional wouldn't turn the monocular away--unless he'd seen Jim come out on the balcony and was lying low. That would mean he'd need to be aware of Jim's enhanced senses. The creep on the phone hadn't even suggested as much, and Jim was pretty sure he'd have found a way to play on it, letting him hear distant screams from Sandburg just to test the ability, for instance. No, he hadn't known. Jim was just a cop who had annoyed him. If he had heard the least hint of the Sentinel ability, he'd be sure to use it against Jim.

Jim moved on, checking other windows in that building, the next, the one on the other side. He saw people in some of them, sometimes working late, sometimes, in apartments, going about home life. In one, he saw two men bent companionably over a chessboard. Although he hadn't piggy-backed his hearing onto his sight, he could tell they were laughing.

The sight of that companionship made him miss Sandburg all the more. That one-week stay Sandburg had insisted was all he needed a few years ago had stretched out until it became permanent. This was Sandburg's home now, as well as Jim's, a home that needed both of them to make it complete. Where the hell are you, Sandburg?

The apartment building he searched offered glimpses of family life: a mother sitting around a table with three teenage girls, a middle-school boy roughhousing with a dog while his parents watched TV, two young women curled up with books while a third talked animatedly on the telephone, an elderly couple sitting hand in hand, evidently listening to music from the way the wife swayed gently in time with it.

Families came in many different shapes. Jim's family was missing--and in trouble.

The glint of the dying sun on a pair of binoculars caught Jim's eye and he narrowed in on it. A weedy little man with a couple of days’ growth of beard stood at the window of an apartment almost directly across from the loft. Jim's heart pounded with hope, then he sagged. The glasses weren't pointed at Jim but at another building off to the side. Jim followed the gaze and spotted a young woman in the process of undressing.

"Pervert with binoculars," he said to Simon out of the corner of his mouth. "I'll pin it down. Maybe we can give him a scare when this is over." After they found Sandburg.

"Not watching you?"

"That guy who called me wouldn't tolerate somebody taking time for a little lecherous window peeping." He registered the woman's apartment. It wouldn't hurt to phone her, too, and warn her to close the curtains before she undressed.

"Keep trying, Jim."

Ellison focused once again. Not many more buildings allowed line of sight with the interior of the loft. Wait. There.

The lens of the video camera was pointed right at Jim. No one manned it, but it was probably linked to a monitor elsewhere in the room. As the sun dipped toward the horizon buildings' shadows blocked it from the window. Jim could spot the gently flickering blue glow of a monitor. The curtains had been drawn nearly closed, revealing only the camera lens and the suggestion of the monitor light. Jim got a brief sensation of movement past the narrow slit in the curtains, enough to spot a tall, beefy man, but he was gone before Jim could pinpoint his features.

He let his gaze brush past with evident indifference, his shoulders sagging as if he'd been out here battling frustration. Simon, who had known him long enough to read both his expression and his body language, played up by giving him a comradely pat on the shoulder.

His back to the camera, Jim said, "The apartment building three over from the Kraymer, one block further east. Red brick. Sixth floor, third window from the left. Monitor camera setup, aimed right at the loft. Looks like it might be a pretty decent surveillance setup."

"I'll call it in. We'll send a team over there."

"I'm going. They might have Sandburg there."

"The minute you leave, you alert them something's up." He waved Jim inside and the two of them headed for the kitchen, out of the line of sight. Simon continued, "You have to remain visible; they'll know if you leave. I'd bet good money they've got someone on the front door downstairs. They might even tail me when I go. If you head for that place, not only will they know they've been busted, they'll realize you figured it out. I know you don't want to stay, Jim, but if you go, you could endanger Sandburg."

"So, what, then? I just sit here? Sandburg's out there and some sadistic bastard is gonna torture and kill him, and I do nothing? No way in hell."

Simon grabbed him by the upper arms, his grip tight. "Listen to me, Jim. You have to stay here--for now. Once we pick up whoever's behind that surveillance camera, you'll have more freedom of movement. They won't guess you had anything to do with pinning them down. Besides, that guy might call again."

"Sure, now that his surveillance team watched them set up the phone trace?"

"He'll know just how long he's got before we can trace him." Simon used his cell phone to call in the information that Jim had pinpointed. "Get a team over there right away," he concluded. "Report back to me on my cell."

A knock on the door made Jim jump. He'd gone too deep in his dark thoughts. He hurried to answer it.

A kid stood there; Jim recognized him. He lived in 207, one floor down. Tommy Shelton, blond kid, tall enough to be the center on his high school basketball team. He had a good three inches on Jim, but he was as skinny as a drainpipe. The friendly grin on his face faded at the sight of Jim's dark expression. "Uh, hi, Detective Ellison."

"Not a good time, Tommy."

"I've just got something to give you." He held out a brown paper grocery bag. "I was just coming home and some guy stopped me and said he'd promised to give you something but he was running late and would I bring it in. Here."

Jim took the bag. It was too light to be a bomb. He glanced into it.

Blair's plaid lumberjack shirt had been wadded up in the bag. The metallic smell of blood assailed Jim's nostrils.

He kept his face carefully blank. "What did the guy look like, Tommy?" he asked in level tones, and hoped the kid didn't realize he was gritting his teeth. In the tightness of his grip the bag made crinkly sounds.

"Uh, he was an old guy, probably your age." He heard how that sounded and caught himself. "I mean an adult," he corrected. "Sorry."

"That's okay, I'm feeling older by the second. Can you describe him? Thoroughly enough to get a drawing made?"

Tommy's eyes widened. "Was he a criminal?" he blurted. "What's in there?"

"Evidence," Jim said repressively. "Come on, Tommy. This is important. A man's life could depend on it."

Hard to imagine the kid's eyes could open much further, but they did. "God, I didn't know. I wasn't paying much attention. I wanted to get home in time to watch Stargate, and Mom will want me to eat and hang out with my kid brother first." He glanced surreptitiously at his watch. "It's the season opener." When Jim glared at him, he said, "Oh, well, the VCR's set. What do you need me to do?"

"Describe the guy. Would you recognize him again?"

Tommy's head bobbed. "I think I would. He was as blond as me, and you don't see a lot of old, uh, older guys with hair this light." He scrunched up his face in a paroxysm of concentration. "He had a really thin kind of face, thin and pointy, if you know what I mean. Kind of like--what's that old-time actor? Roddy McDowall." He produced the name triumphantly. "My mom used to have a crush on him."

Jim's flashing image of McDowall in the movie Cleopatra, where he'd had blond hair, rang ten warning bells, explaining why he'd always felt a vague sense of familiarity about a certain criminal. "Walter Scott," he gritted out. "Simon, it's Walter Scott. Has to be."

"Sure?" Banks asked.

"I can see him as clear as I can see you. If anybody looked like a blond Roddy McDowall, it's Walter Scott." His face hardened. "He works for Jack Steele. That's it, Simon. It was Steele's voice on the phone. I remember now."

Jack Steele. As hard-hearted, cold-blooded a bastard as Jim had ever had the misfortune to meet. He'd ordered the killing of a whole family who had witnessed a robbery he committed, so they couldn't testify against him. Only the nine-year-old girl had survived, and Jim had made sure she was safe to testify. She was far away now, living with relatives on the East Coast. Better put in a call to them to warn them that Steele might have escaped--the girl could be in danger, too. Jim's testimony had been instrumental in sending Steele to prison, and as he'd been sentenced, Steele had cried, "I'll get you, Ellison," before they took him away. Had Steele called him from Starkville? Prisoners were allowed occasional phone calls. But how would he know when to time the call? It wasn't as if he had a phone in his cell to get the warning that Jim was home.

Simon pushed his glasses into place on his nose with an impatient forefinger. "Steele's still in prison, serving a life sentence, and it was your testimony that put him away."

"God, Simon, that was before I even met Sandburg. He's got no right...." Realizing the boy was listening, he broke off.

"You mean somebody kidnapped Blair?" Alarm flooded the boy's face. He glanced at the sack with a horrified fascination as if he expected to find a bloody finger in there, or maybe an ear.

Jim wished he hadn't thought of that. "Tommy, you go home and watch Stargate. We'll find Blair. You've really helped us." He gave the boy an encouraging pat on the shoulder. He ought to be safe. Walter Scott wasn't a violent man, at least not unless cornered. He'd simply found a way to avoid direct contact with Jim. Tommy wasn't important to him. He'd probably waited until he saw someone who looked like he wouldn't pay much attention and casually offered the sack. Still, it wouldn't hurt to be safe. "I'll go down with you."

He saw Tommy safe to his apartment with the door closed, then he took a minute to check the lobby, to peer out into the street. If Scott were lurking, he'd probably expect that but, knowing the guy, he'd have taken off as soon as he found someone to bring the shirt to Jim.

When Jim returned to the apartment, Simon had used a fork to open the sack, and pulled out the shirt. It lay spread on the kitchen table, displaying a messy smear of blood right in the middle of the chest with a knife slash through the middle of it. The blood had nearly dried and there wasn't a lot. A wound there would be.... Jim imagined the shirt on Sandburg. That would hit him just below the breastbone. God, there wouldn't be much blood if the knife thrust had killed him instantly. Sandburg....

"Jim? Jim! Jim!" Simon grabbed him and shook him. "Come out of it, Jim."

He blinked. That hadn't been a zone-out. That had been simple shock. "God, Simon, he could be dead." His heart thudded in his chest, and his stomach clenched. Steele had claimed Sandburg wasn't dead, but Steele would know how much hope could hurt when it was crushed. Allow Jim some expectation of saving his friend and then snatch it away. He was the kind of guy who would like that.

"Steele's out," Simon told him. "I checked while you were taking the kid home."

"Out? How the hell could he be out? Life sentence with no chance of parole."

"His sister died today. She was dying and pleaded for him, and they took him under heavily armed guard to see her. Some smart lawyer and the prison chaplain and a lot of gobbledy-gook about compassionate leave and they let him go to her bedside. Her husband is a big shot up at Microsoft with major bucks, personal friend of the governor, and he set it up. But Steele must have known the sister was dying, and banked on just such an opportunity. He had his people ready, and they shot up a hospital wing in Seattle just a couple of hours ago. Five innocent bystanders wounded, and a nurse was killed. The word had just come through at Major Crimes when I called in."

Jim stared at him in disbelief. That told him exactly what kind of guy Steele was, that he'd plan an elaborate scheme and bank on his own sister's dying to pull it off. Any hope that Steele intended to let Blair live vanished like smoke.

"Jim, listen to me. We know who he is. I've got people already tracking Scott's movements. He'll have set up a hideout for Steele. The word's out, and everybody's checking their snitches. We're probably looking for a remote, isolated site. Possibly a property rental, possibly a place that's been empty that they've found and moved in on. We'll track him down. Right now a SWAT team is headed for the surveillance site."

"We don't know where Sandburg is. He could be anywhere."

"If we can't come up with a location or rumor of one from our snitches, then we'll see what other route to investigate. They took him out of here in broad daylight. Somebody must have seen something. We'll question the tenants of the building and the store owners across the street. Somebody might have got a license plate."

It was clear he didn't have much hope of the last possibility and Jim had to agree with him. He groaned. "People never notice anything. If they walked out beside Sandburg with a concealed gun on him...." His voice trailed off. If they walked him out, the wound might not be that bad. The blood on his shirt might.... Jim snatched up the shirt and focused his senses on the biggest smear of blood. Had the knife hole been added later? If there were a way to tell, he wasn't sure how to focus to find it. Sandburg usually figured out ways to pull off things like that. But the blood might have come from a slight injury, something to leave traces in the loft. He sniffed at the blood, then froze. "Damn it!"

"What is it, Jim?"

"This isn't all Sandburg's blood. This biggest part--it's not even human blood. They put it there to freak me out."

"Are you sure, Jim?"

"Positive, sir. This--" He stabbed his finger at a smaller smear near the left cuff. "This is Sandburg's. This other--it isn't even human. There's something in it that's different. Anybody with normal senses would see the shirt and lose it. They'd know we'd have it tested and find out eventually, but Steele wouldn't care about that. He'd only care that he had a chance to freak me. Later on, if he kills Sandburg or has more genuine evidence, he'll send that along, too. I'm thinking a video tape."

They stared at each other. From the look in Simon's eyes Jim knew he was imagining the nasty things Steele might do to Sandburg before he killed him just as vividly as Jim was.

In the momentary silence, the phone screeched obscenely.

"Let the machine take it, Jim. See if we can get a trace."

Jim heard the recording come on, the beep. Then Sandburg's voice, harried and upset. "Jim, you got the message? I'm sorry. I couldn't help it. No," he said, away from the phone. "I'm telling him."

Jim lunged for the receiver. Before he could reach it, Blair said, "I'm coming, all right? Jim, a couple of days. I'll call again." And just as Jim snatched the receiver, Sandburg hung up. Or someone hung up for him.

Jim picked it up anyway. "Sandburg?" He half expected Steele to come on the line and gloat, but Steele didn't. No response. After a second, Jim lowered the phone and stared at Banks. "What did you make of that?"

Simon's brow scrunched up. "If you ask me, it was weird. Either they had him on a script or he was trying to tell you something, send you a message. Obviously someone was with him. Maybe they thought he would try to warn you and they cut him off."

"He didn't sound hurt," Jim said thoughtfully. "Or even scared. Sandburg can bluster and try to hide it, but I can always tell. Something was bugging him, but he didn't sound scared. You think they haven't told him what they wanted him for?"

"I'd bank on it. Otherwise he wouldn't have talked about a couple of days, as if he thought he'd be released. That 'I'm coming' was meant for whoever was in the background, did you get that?"

Jim nodded. "Yeah, I did. You think they plan to spring it on him suddenly? Shit. And that wasn't remotely long enough to trace the call."

"They might have pinned down the area code." Simon pulled out his cell phone and called it in. "What did you get?" He was silent a long moment, then he made a disgusted snort. "Nothing. He used a cell phone."

Jim, who had extended his hearing for the answer, gave a groan of disgust. The call had been only a few seconds long. They'd been lucky to get an area code, and the area code included more than Cascade. Sandburg didn't even have to be in town. Even if they could keep him on the line long enough to pin down the number, it might take up to twenty minutes to pin down a cell phone's location, and for all they knew the guy might be shifting locations all the time.

Jim glanced over at the window, at the distant watcher who must be dancing in glee. Let him dance. The SWAT team would break down the door any second now. But Cascade was just too big. Even if Jim drove up and down every likely street in hopes of picking up the beat of his guide's heart, he might not find him in time. He might never hear that well-known heartbeat again.

Sandburg shouldn't have to pay Jim's debts. Apart from the obvious need of a guide to manage his senses, Jim faced the possibility of a future without Sandburg--his friend--in it, and his stomach twisted. It was too soon. He'd nearly lost Blair at the fountain those few short weeks ago. Now he could lose him for real, and being the Sentinel of the Great City couldn't prevent it if Steele decided the time had come. I'm sorry, Sandburg. I never meant for anything like this to happen.

 

*****

 

"I'm sorry, sweetie. I never meant anything like this to happen."

Blair Sandburg gazed at his mother and bit back his growing frustration. He'd known her too many years to be surprised at anything Naomi Sandburg pulled. She always believed that she meant well, that she knew best, but in Naomi's case "Mother knows best" could be a joke. There had been occasions when he'd felt like he was the parent and his mom was the child.

Worse, though, was that Naomi knew exactly what buttons to push to summon Blair, even when the last thing he wanted to do was fall for the same old routines. He remembered her phone call. He'd been slicing up some vegetables for a stew, his mind on a class he'd held that afternoon, and the lively discussion about tribal cultures, when the phone rang. So deep was he in reminiscence that he jumped when the phone rang and the knife slid neatly into the fleshy part of his thumb. With a muttered curse, he'd grabbed the nearest kitchen towel and wrapped it around his hand before he answered the phone.

"Blair? I've been phoning and phoning." The distress in her voice had been so vivid that his heart had plummeted. With Naomi, such misery needn't necessarily mean she was in dire straits. Her chakras might be unbalanced, or she might have decided to take a stand to protect the whales. But she used that same tone when she was suffering. She hadn't thought of leaving a message, evidently. Typical.

"Mom? What's wrong?" He pressed the towel against the cut. It wasn't deep but it was bleeding. Jim would have a fit if Blair bled all over the loft. Of course, being Jim, he'd fuss over Blair even while he chided Blair for his stupidity in letting it happen. Fine, and I'll remind you that I'm not the only one who ever 'zones out', Jim.

"Jake's dying." The genuine pain in her voice removed all thought of minor cuts from Blair's mind.

"Jake?" He could remember no one named that among the cast of Naomi's life.

Her had voice softened, grew confiding. "Oh, sweetie, I never thought I'd tell you this because I wasn't sure, and I'm still not, but it's possible that Jake Sinclair might be...your father."

Blair had felt a sudden edgy rush in his stomach. His mother had always claimed she didn't know who his father was; considering her lifestyle at the time of his conception, that was no surprise. Naomi had made the rounds of various communes, mingled with rock stars, partied constantly. Although Blair would have loved to have a name when thinking of his unknown father, he'd always believed it would be impossible. Could it be that now, when the chips were down and this Jake was on his deathbed, he was about to learn the truth?

When he was nineteen, Naomi had introduced him to a guy called Ted Williams, just like the baseball player, and told him privately that he might be Blair's father. Looking at the six-foot-six Nordic blond ski instructor, Blair had tended to doubt he had any of Ted's genetic material, and old Ted hadn't displayed even remote curiosity about Blair's parentage. In the end, Naomi had shrugged it off and admitted that seeing him again had convinced her that the odds were probably wildly against his being Blair's father but, for a moment, he'd had hope that he'd finally learn the truth. If this should be the real thing, he'd find a father--just in time to lose him.

"My...father?" He had swallowed hard. "Where are you?"

"Seattle. At the Gateway Hospital. I just found out how ill he was. Please, sweetie, can you come up here now? It's not that far, and Jake doesn't have much time. He was asking for me, and his sister tracked me down. She's his only relative. His wife and son died in a car accident years ago." She hesitated. "I did love him."

Right up until you 'detached with love', thought Blair cynically, but he couldn't squelch the shiver in his stomach. It was Friday; he had no classes until Monday and he and Jim had planned nothing special for the weekend. He didn't even have a date lined up. If Jake Sinclair turned out to be his father, Blair had to see him before he died. "I'll drive up right away."

When he hung up, he took a few minutes to haul out the first-aid kit and stick a couple of band-aids over the cut in his thumb. The bleeding had pretty much stopped by then, even though he'd managed to get blood on his shirt cuff. He took off the shirt and placed it and the bloodstained towel in the laundry. No time to do more than rinse the knife. When he understood Blair's need to leave quickly, Jim would forget the house rules this once.

Before he departed, he'd tried to reach Jim. The answering machine picked up at Major Crimes, so he tried Jim's cell phone. He got a message there, too, so instead, he wrote Jim a note, explaining that his mom had called about something urgent and that he'd driven up to Seattle. He'd call once he arrived.

Naomi found him in the lobby of the hospital as he made one more call to reach Jim at the loft--he should be home by now--and got the answering machine. She had flung herself at him in a cloud of essential oils, trailing a gauzy scarf and the gazes of men who still found attractive a woman old enough to have a grown son. Sublimely unaware of their eyes upon her, Naomi had reached for the phone. "Is that Jim? Does he know?"

He jerked the phone away from her. "No, I'm telling him." When she tugged at his arm, he held up his free hand. "I'm coming, all right?" He spoke into the phone. "Jim, a couple of days. I'll call again."

Naomi snatched the phone and pushed the button to end the call. Blair didn't chastise for it, not when she was so obviously upset. Instead he let her emote all over him. "I thought you'd never come. He's dying. We have to go see him right away."

"Come on, Mom, calm down. We'll go see him. Uh, does he...know about me?"

"He knows I have a son," Naomi admitted, detaching herself--with love?--and fixing the blue-eyed intensity of her gaze upon her son. "I don't think he ever made the connection. Men can sometimes be blind when they don't want to see the truth."

Put a baby in the picture and a lot of men developed instant vision problems. Probably the guy hadn't wanted to be tied down. Most men didn't think of the consequences that might arrive nine months later while they had their fun. What would this Jake think when Naomi dragged Blair into his hospital room? "Does he know I'm coming?" he asked.

"No, I didn't tell him. I thought I'd take you in there and when he saw you--oh, sweetie, his eyes are the same color as yours."

So are yours, Mom. That didn't prove anything, just that Blair would be bound, genetically, to have blue eyes if both his parents did. Recessive gene and all. That didn't prove that Jake Sinclair was his father, only that it was possible he could be--he and any other blue-eyed man his mother had ever known.

"He's dying. Do you think he's up to shocks like this?" The thought of walking into the room of a total stranger, a dying stranger, and saying, "Hi, Dad," was not a happy one. His scalp tightened. Maybe he should have waited for Jim to come along. Jim knew how much Blair would have liked to know his father. It was one of the reasons why Blair kept pushing Jim to maintain and improve his relationship with his own father. William Ellison might not have been the ideal father, but he'd loved Jim in his own way. You could tell it from the way he said, "Jimmy," from the scrapbooks he'd kept on Jim's life. Blair shivered at the thought of that pathetic grasping at what he'd lost, what he'd driven away. Maybe someday, William and Jim would bridge the huge gap that separated them.

If Jake Sinclair were really Blair's father, there wouldn't be time to bridge this one.

"Yes, he's dying, but he's able to have visitors. They've made him comfortable." Blair translated that to "doped him up."

"What's he dying of?"

"Cancer."

Blair gnawed on his bottom lip. That was a bad way to go. The guy had to be in a lot of pain. Naomi had said he was medicated. He might not even be alert enough to realize Naomi was here, that she'd brought Blair--or who Blair might be. What a burden to lay on a dying man. What a burden for Blair. If Jake Sinclair were his father, then that meant Blair would see him at the worst possible time. He wouldn't be able to achieve closure for himself because Sinclair's need would have to come first. Instead, he'd be there, facing his father--possible father--at a time when he couldn't allow his own needs or insecurities to matter.

God, he wanted Jim.

The reassuring presence of the best friend he'd ever had would have meant everything. Jim would look at him and know, just like that, how he was feeling, understand the tangle of emotions he didn't quite understand himself, would be there for him in a way that Naomi never could be. She'd never really understood Blair. She'd just understood her own concept of Blair, twisting it around in her head to meet her own needs. It wasn't that Naomi was consciously selfish. She'd have denied that vehemently. But her perspective was skewed Naomi-wise so that while she talked of understanding and love, she also railroaded people around to her viewpoint. Look at her coming into the loft, rearranging the furniture, trying to change Jim's lifestyle without even stopping to find out who Jim was. She'd done the same thing to Blair all his life, making automatic assumptions based on her views of what was best. She didn't even know she did it.

It surprised Blair to realize that, even when Jim thought Blair was a "hippie flake" he hadn't automatically assumed that Blair matched the surface image. In the past few years Blair knew that Ellison had come to understand him far better than Naomi ever had, and she'd known him since he was born.

Naomi might think reuniting Blair with his--possible--father was a wonderful thing for all concerned. Closure for Sinclair, validation for Blair, and there would be Naomi in a cloud of virtue, rushing her son to his dying father's bedside, noble and saintly and virtuous.

But she wouldn't for one second look past that to the consequences for Blair, or for the dying man who could have had the comfort of a son at his bedside for weeks, or who could have known him all his life.

Of course that presupposed that Sinclair had even wanted a son in the first place.

Welcome to my world, Blair thought wryly. Jim would have seen the anxiety attack waiting to happen, but of course Naomi didn't have a clue. She was doing a "good thing".

"Is he okay with this?" Blair ventured uneasily. "I mean, does he know why you're bringing me? Does he know...that I might be his son?"

Naomi hesitated, and a furrow of doubt appeared on her forehead. "I...wanted to bring you together first, so he could see you, see how you've turned out."

"God, Mom, the guy is dying. The shock might kill him."

The furrow deepened. "I talked to the doctor. He said it would be all right." Pain flashed in the blue of her eyes. "I think the doctor feels he's got so little time left that it won't matter, that Jake deserves to know--and there's just no time to ease him into it."

Blair pictured the scenario. "Jake, this is Blair. Your son." Jake's dying eyes widening in disbelief--and his heart giving out before anyone had time to say another word. This was crazy. It was impossible.

I don't want to do this.

"Well, I'll go in there but I think you're putting an awful burden on him." And on me.

If he is my father, I want to see him. I have to see him. But maybe it would be better if we didn't say anything to him. Why disturb him when he's dying?

Or is that a cop-out?

Blair hesitated, torn. Jim wasn't here, but he could call Jim afterwards. He ought to be home by then or off his cell phone, and he would have gotten Blair's brief message. If Sinclair were his father, Blair would have to stay up here for a few days anyway. There was a sister, his mom had said, who might be Blair's aunt. Did Sinclair have any legitimate children? A wife? No, Mom had said his wife and son had died. Were there other children? He'd have to find that out later because Naomi's fingers closed on his arm and she tugged him down the corridor.

The woman at Sinclair's bedside was compactly built with hair that was wildly disarrayed but the same color as Blair's own, with a stubborn wave in it. She turned a face with a tip-tilted nose and wide blue eyes. She didn't look like Blair, but she did look like someone who could possibly be related to him. Her eyes met Naomi's, then she frowned at the sight of Blair. Did she know what Naomi suspected? Did she want them here at all?

She smiled sadly at Naomi. "This is your son?"

"This is Blair." She tugged Blair closer. "Blair, sweetie, this is Kelly Raymond, Jake's sister." She craned her neck to look past the small woman to the man in the bed. Blair saw her glance even as he shook hands with his possible aunt. There was no recognition or resentment in her eyes, only weary politeness layered over the grief she felt about her brother.

Then Blair saw Jake Sinclair, and he shivered, because the guy could be his father. Impossible to tell how tall he was as he lay there, shrunken and emaciated, connected up to nearly every possible connection the hospital had to offer. There were two separate IV's, a temperature cap on his finger, a catheter bag hanging on the bed, some other leads, and a monitor readout above his head that Blair eyed uneasily before he turned his gaze back to the man in the bed. He had lost his hair in the chemo process and it had tried to grow back in, enough to give him a brown fuzz that was the same color as his sister's--and Blair's. Face shape must have been similar to Blair's before it had grown so thin with such sharply protruding cheekbones, nose and chin. His eyes were open and aware, not even much pain in them. The morphine or whatever it was had him numbed as he studied Blair. If he knew why Naomi had brought her son, it didn't show in the mild, incurious gaze.

"So this is your boy, Naomi-sweet," he said, and his voice held traces of the strength he must have carried when he still had the muscles that went with his frame. "He looks a bit like you. I remember the first time you felt him kick." He smiled. "You made me put my hand on your belly, and we both felt it. Life. An incredible gift."

A gift he would soon have snatched away from him. Blair hoped his flinch didn't show. He muttered inanely, "I was a lot younger then," and cursed himself mentally for saying anything so utterly stupid. Jake had been around when Naomi was pregnant? Maybe he really was Blair's father.

To his astonishment, Jake laughed out loud. It would have been a good laugh in a healthy man, full and rich, but he broke off in the middle to cough. Kelly jumped over to offer him water, but he waved it away as he brought the spasm under control.

"Don't fuss, Kell. I needed a good laugh."

"Jake, dear?" Naomi edged closer. Blair had seen that look on her face before. It was the one she wore when she was about to tell somebody something for their own good that she hoped they'd have the sense to appreciate.

He turned toward her. "I'm glad you came, Naomi. It takes me back to a time when I was young and immortal."

"We were all immortal then, Jake."

Blair thought that was one of the nicest things his mother could have said. She caught Jake's hand in hers, avoiding the IV lines, and squeezed it gently. "I did love you," she whispered.

"For a time. For as long as you could," he said. The eyes were shrewd. He had Naomi pegged, all right. Naomi flitted in and out of relationships like a butterfly flitting from flower to flower. The flowers might be glad of her coming, but at least they wouldn't care when she left, and Blair suspected this man had. He continued, "But I knew I couldn't tame the wild spirit in you. Better not to try." He measured her with his gaze. "No one ever did, did they? Ah, Naomi, that was good when you were immortal, but now? We all die. You shouldn't have to die alone. Don't hold onto a dream because you think it keeps you young and free. Neither quantity is necessary in a relationship."

She dimpled at him. "Would you have me change my nature?"

"I think I'd have you happy." He looked at her steadily. "Are you happy, Naomi?"

She lowered her eyes, and very carefully didn't look at Blair. It dawned on him that, in spite of his earlier perceptions about his mother, he might have a few of the same faults. She was his mom. Did he know if she were happy? Was her determined flitting a means of covering up the fact that she had never found anything permanent and reliable? Until Blair had met Jim, friends had been casual. The moment of realization when he'd told Jim, "It's about friendship," had crystallized more than his commitment to Jim. It had taught him that what he'd perceived friendship, or any deep relationship, to be until that point was a flawed perception. Had Naomi ever gone to the full depths of an interaction with another human being?

Conscious of eyes on him, Blair looked up and met the dying man's stare head on. His father?

"You son understands what I mean," Jake said gently. "Blair. She always liked that name. I have a feeling, just from that look on your face, son, that your mother raised you far better than she raised herself." He arched an eyebrow. "Or did she leave your raising to you?"

Blair hesitated. He didn't want to hurt Naomi, but he couldn't lie to a dying man. "She left it to me," he confirmed.

Naomi flinched. "Blair, I--"

"No, it's okay, Mom." He put his arm around her shoulders. "Don't worry about it. I'm okay." He felt her lean into the circle of his arm, and suddenly realized that in maturity he was years older than his mother. It was an odd feeling.

"He is okay," Jake said. Maybe being so close to death, to the final answer to all the questions, offered him added perception. The fatigue that ran through his thin voice suggested it was time to bring the brief audience to a close. But when Blair made a vague gesture toward the door, Jake put out his hand to Naomi. "Wait."

She slipped free of Blair and put her hand into Jake's. "I had to tell you, Jake. That's mostly why I came. It's about Blair."

The sunken face puckered in confusion. He didn't have a clue.

"Look at Blair, Jake."

"I'm looking."

"You don't think, that maybe, it's possible that--we were together then. That you...." Naomi's voice trailed off. Maybe she finally realized this was too much burden to lay upon Sinclair.

"That I...what?" No, he didn't get it. Could it mean that, even now at the end, he didn't want to get it?

Blair intervened before Naomi could falter out more confusion. "I never knew who my father was." It was hard to produce the words. Somehow, his lips and tongue had numbed.

Jake's eyes widened. Even surprise was fatiguing. He blinked dazedly at Blair, and the pain in his eyes might have been from the cancer--or from the fact of Naomi's supposition. "You think I'm your father?" he blurted. His face was nearly grey with exhaustion, but his eyes were clear. "I'm not your father," he said. "I can't be. If your mother told you I was, she lied."

Kelly intervened hastily. "Jake, you're too exhausted. I'll bring them back later." She put her hand on Blair's arm, and he wasn't sure if the gesture were meant to comfort him or restrain him. Jake didn't protest their expulsion. Maybe he lacked the strength. Or maybe he was glad to see them gone.

Blair stood in the hall outside the dying man's room, feeling rejected and longing for Jim.

 

*****

 

"Too soon. It was all too goddamned soon." Jack Steele swung a muscular arm around and sent a vase crashing to the floor. What the hell did he care for vases? The place was rented anyway, under another name, and he'd paid enough for the privacy it offered him that the owners had better not come after him for cheap pottery. "If only Elaine had held out one more lousy week...." That pulled him up momentarily. Steele had loved his sister, the only family he'd had left, the only one who had ever mattered. The fact that he'd had to use her dying to escape from prison didn't affect the fact that he loved her. Using her for his prison break was something she might even have understood--and he'd waited until she was gone to give the signal for his men to act. But he could have used another week. Then he'd have had time to have Ellison's phone line bugged, and strategic and undetectable bugs planted all through his apartment. He could have taken longer on his ploy to grab the long-haired kid who had moved in with the hated cop, who was supposed to be his friend.

"It's still working," Walter Scott consoled him. "By the time they get that shirt tested and find out most of it is only chicken blood, Ellison will have had plenty of time to sweat it out."

"It might help if those idiots, Kelso and Coretti, you sent up to Seattle after Sandburg had actually found him. He could call Ellison any time and that would blow the whole thing." He glared at Sandburg's note. The kid wasn't even in town, but Ellison didn't know that, so Scott had simply removed the note and a few of Sandburg's possessions, including the blood-stained shirt he'd found in the laundry. It had been easy enough to disarray the loft apartment, to drape the blood-stained towel where Ellison would spot it immediately. As long as Sandburg didn't call home to report his safe arrival, Ellison had no way of knowing his buddy was free and in Seattle rather than in the hands of his worst enemy. Scott could think on his feet, which was more than Steele could say for most of the scum who worked for him. The guys who had helped at the hospital had gone over the top. At least one person was dead there, another nail in Steele's coffin if they should ever find him. It had taken the best crooked lawyers money could buy to prevent the death penalty last time. Add this new carnage and who knew what would happen?

If only he could find Sandburg. Those bumbling idiots might miss him altogether.

"They'll find him. We've got the license number of Sandburg's Volvo. We checked out his mother. She's a flake, still living like a hippie. Sandburg probably won't bother to call for a couple of days. Like the note says, he's planning to be back on Monday. So he probably won't call before Sunday night. He might just show up."

Steele didn't like it, but Sandburg had vanished. He hadn't checked into any hotel or motel up in Seattle yet, at least not under his own name. Naomi Sandburg wasn't registered anywhere, either. She might be staying at a private home or a bed and breakfast--there hadn't been time to check all of them out. "That gives me time. Even if your clowns blow it, I'm going to enjoy some revenge. Next time I call Ellison, I'll tell him Sandburg croaked. Let him suffer." He rubbed his hands together. "He's got the phone bugged by now." He gestured at the forty-five inch TV screen that offered a clear view of Ellison pacing up and down in his loft, the other man pacing after him. The relay signal was sharp and clear. Ellison looked like he wanted to explode in all directions. The way he'd stood out there on the balcony staring around the city as if he could only squint a bit and see Sandburg had been delightful. Weird when he looked right at the camera lens, although the torment in his eyes had made Steele rock on his toes with glee. Lousy cop. He'd pay for arresting Jack Steele. He could have the whole weekend to sweat over Sandburg's supposed death.

Even if Sandburg eluded the hired thugs and returned home, there would be the guys waiting to grab him. Maybe even right in front of Ellison. Steele smiled.

The black man with Ellison was Captain Simon Banks, Ellison's boss. As Steele watched, he raised his cell phone, pushed a button and held it to his ear. He said something to Ellison. It must not have been about Sandburg because the tensions didn't leave Ellison's shoulders. Instead he turned away from Banks and stalked out onto the balcony. Banks followed. They seemed to be looking at the camera, but Steele knew that was simply because it was directly across from them. Ellison's face was impassive. Banks said a few more words into the phone as he joined Ellison, his head turned at such an angle that Steele couldn't read his lips, even assuming he possessed that gift. Then both men just stood staring into space. Weird. It felt as if they could see right through the screen to Steele himself.

Irritated at his reaction, Steele turned his eyes away. The second TV screen was smaller; it presented a relay of the surveillance room. Steele knew the men he'd hired would work better knowing the boss was watching them. A second camera, posted in the room, showed the guys busy playing cards at a table out of the line of sight of the narrow gap in the curtains. Every now and then, one of them would get up to check the main camera. They had better. Steele was not a tolerant man.

As he watched the guys pick up their new poker hands, he saw them stop and stare at the door. It was just within the camera frame. They looked at each other and one of them said, "Who the hell is that?" The sound on that television set was turned low so that their voices and a supposed knock at the door had been almost inaudible, but that was louder.

Steele snapped his fingers and Scott jumped to adjust the volume. Now he could hear knocking. "Police! Open up!"

The two idiots at the table glanced at each other. Maybe they realized that they were on the sixth floor and had no way out but the window. One of them went for the gun he had in the shoulder holster, but the other shook his head. Smart man; he'd go down in a rain of bullets if he tried to fight. However the site had been compromised--had the sunlight reflected off the camera lens? Had someone in the building reported them?--it was compromised. Those two didn't know Steele was involved. Scott had hired them; he hadn't used his own name, so the two might not be traced back to Steele.

The one who had advocated peaceful surrender yelled, "We're coming, don't shoot," and flung open the door.

It seemed like hundreds of SWAT guys stormed into the room, but it proved no more than a dozen. They secured the two thugs without the slightest effort. When they were bound, a couple of suits came in and set upon the camera equipment. They didn't touch it or disconnect it, but one of them, a rather stocky black man, said, "There's a relay here. The signal's going somewhere. We can trace it."

"How long will it take?" The other man was tall and thin with dark hair. "Sandburg's in trouble."

"I know Hairboy's in trouble. We need some experts in here."

One of the SWAT team pointed out the overhead camera. The two detectives stared at it. They exchanged a glance, then the black man faced it. "Listen up, Steele," he snarled. "If you harm so much as one hair on Sandburg's head, you'll never get away with it."

Steele whirled to Scott. "How the hell do they know?" he demanded.

"In case you're wondering how we identified you so quickly," the black man's partner said, "it wasn't difficult. Scott shouldn't have brought the shirt himself. You didn't think we'd get the word about your escape?"

Steele grabbed Scott by the arms. "You talked to Ellison yourself? Are you insane? I ought to blow you away."

Scott wiggled free. "I didn't. You think I'm crazy? I gave it to some kid in the building to take to Ellison. Teenagers don't notice anything but what they want to see."

"Ellison may have called in surveillance of the building. You stupid bastard!" He turned back to the large-screen TV. Ellison looked him right in the eye. As Steele watched in disbelief, he mouthed exaggeratedly, "If you kill my partner, you're going down for it," and stabbed a finger in the direction of the camera.

He knew. How the hell did he know? Unless that was the call Banks got, to tell them that the SWAT team was in position.

"Okay," Steele said. "We move to the backup site. But first...." He grabbed the phone and dialed Ellison's number. It wouldn't matter now if they traced the call because he'd be moving in the next five minutes anyway.

"Ellison. Disappointed, Steele?" No hesitation at identifying the caller. Did he have caller ID?

"No. Setbacks are always possible. But I've won. By the time you find this place, I'll be gone. And I'll take Sandburg's body with me and leave it where it will never be found. Crows will pick out his eyeballs for a delicacy and foxes will nibble on his nose." He chortled.

"You kill Sandburg and your life will be worth nothing," Ellison spat, but Steele reveled in the fear he heard in the detective's voice.

"Then I guess it's worth nothing, cop, because he's dead. We've been using a lash on him, ripped open his back. Pulled out his fingernails right away. Kept him conscious, kept waking him up when he passed out. When you sent your SWAT team in, I knew I was, er, busted, so I told him he was dead. Then I cut his throat. Me. Personally. The last thing he said before I killed him was, 'Jim will find me.' And I said, 'Yeah, your body. Maybe.' And then he died. As soon as I wash off his blood, I'll be gone."

Ellison gave an enraged bellow. Steele could only see his back through the surveillance camera, see the way his shoulders hunched, see the abrupt, furious way he moved, but Banks spoke urgently into his cell phone. That didn't matter. Steele would be gone in five minutes. Scott had vanished to throw their supplies together and drive the car around. But in those five minutes, he planned to enjoy himself. "He couldn't understand why you didn't save him, cop. He kept saying, 'Jim will find me. I know he will.' And you didn't. You found a camera instead."

"You're dead," Ellison growled. "I swear to God, Steele, you are dead."

"And so is Sandburg," Steele said. He laughed and replaced the receiver. "So is Sandburg," he chortled.

One final glance at the screen showed Ellison slamming the phone down, jerking away from the hand Banks tried to put on his shoulder. If only they'd had time to plant the audio relay. It would have been pure delight to hear the man's agony. Still, he'd seen it, heard enough of it on the phone. He'd put Ellison into hell. Cops and their partners, even if Sandburg wasn't officially a cop. Hurt one and both would bleed. If he'd been a more self-indulgent man, Steele would have reveled in watching Ellison's rage and misery for a while longer, but Steele valued his life more. There was still Sandburg to find, to make Ellison's agony permanent. They had to notify the Seattle men that Steele would be at the alternate location.

He glanced around the room and spied Sandburg's note to Ellison. It wouldn't do to leave that behind. It would be instant proof that Sandburg might not be dead. Not a guarantee; Sandburg could have been writing the note when Steele's boys arrived, and there was a faint smear of blood on it. But Steel didn't want Ellison to find it. He shredded it into tiny pieces, stepped briefly into the bathroom, and flushed them down the toilet.

"Suffer, Ellison," he said to the screen. Then, with a smile, he went outside where Scott was loading a couple of suitcases into the back of the late-model Taurus. One glance around the grounds of the wooded estate proved that when the cops found this place they would waste a lot of time and manpower searching for the kid's body. While they were doing that, Steele would be free to find the kid and finish him off for real.

As they drove away, the memory of Ellison's agony warmed his heart. I told you that you'd pay, Ellison. How do you like the price?

 

*****

 

"Come on, Jim, calm down."

Jim yanked away from Simon's hand. "He killed him, Simon. He had him tortured and then he cut his throat." The words that didn't want to come out sounded thick and hostile around the grinding of his teeth. It couldn't be real. Sandburg couldn't be dead. A vast emptiness spread before Jim as he imagined a world without Sandburg in it. God, it had only been three weeks ago when he'd found Blair floating face down in the fountain at Rainier. Jim had saved Blair then, but this time he had failed. This can't be happening. That's what he'd said at the fountain, but he'd found a way to bring Sandburg back. No Sentinel ability could bring Blair back this time. Imagining Sandburg suffering torture, alone, afraid, restrained the way he'd been in Lash's dentist chair, then finally watching Steele approach, the blade in his hand, knowing he was about to die.... Sandburg was a brave man, but no one should have to die like that, especially not Sandburg. Certainly not to pay Jim's debt because one amoral, ruthless criminal wanted to get even.

"He died because of me," Jim said in a softer voice. "God, Simon, I can't...."

"You can't believe Steele, Jim. He was pissed off because his surveillance team got busted. He said what he did because the camera was still active, so he could witness your reaction. I don't think he's had time to do all that."

"It takes a second or two to cut a man's throat." Jim nearly gagged at the image that presented to his mind, so vivid and real he could nearly smell the coppery tang of the spurting blood. He pictured Sandburg shrinking back against his bonds, his eyes huge with horror, filled with the knowledge that he was about to die, that Jim had failed him.

"Steele isn't stupid, Jim. He used a cell phone again this time, and didn't give us enough time to pin down his location this time, either. He's watching his own back. I think he'd keep Sandburg alive as long as possible. He might want a hostage, a bargaining chip." Simon was talking fast, trying to get through to Jim, but he also sounded like he was trying to convince himself--and not quite succeeding.

Jim remembered how Steele had reveled in the telling. He might have made his claim just to torment Jim, but why use half-truths when the knowledge that he'd done exactly what he said would make his revenge so much more satisfying? It was all Jim could do to hold back a bellow of rage and despair.

"I'm going to kill him," he said flatly. "I'm going to kill him just like he killed Sandburg."

"You're not gonna do any such thing." Banks grabbed him by the upper arms. "Listen to me, Jim, you can't do it. You think Sandburg wants you to go after the guy out of revenge? You think it would make him happy if you killed a man in cold blood?"

"Killed his killer, Simon. He'd want me to."

"He damn well wouldn't want you to throw your life away. Damn it, Jim, listen to me." He shook Jim by the shoulders. "Steele's probably watching you right now, and dancing for joy at the sight."

Jim glanced involuntarily at the window, then he yanked free of Banks' grip and stalked out of the camera's range. "He's probably already running. They'll trace the camera link to his location."

"We've got a lead on that, Jim. Connor talked to a property rental agency just now. That was the call I just got right after the one about the SWAT team. Somebody matching Scott's description rented a property out on Swallowtail Road. A rich man's estate set back in the woods. Mountainous terrain, no close neighbors. The state police are heading there right now, and Taggart and Connor are on their way, too. If...." He hesitated. "If what he said was true, that's where Sandburg will be."

"I'm gonna kill him," Jim repeated. The ugly image of Sandburg dying like that wouldn't go away. Steele was going to die, even if it meant the end of Jim's career. He couldn't let the son of a bitch get away with what he'd done. Sandburg had never deserved that. To die alone and in pain simply because he was Jim's friend.... There was nothing right about it, nothing fair, nothing just. So why should justice be fair, either?

Steele had just ripped Jim's beating heart out of his chest. How could he be whole without Sandburg beside him? He was Jim's partner, Jim's guide, Jim's shaman. And more than all that, he was Jim's friend--Jim's brother. He'd never been closer to another human being in his whole life. Without Sandburg, what the hell kind of life did he have left? A Sentinel without a Guide? A man without a brother? Did it matter what happened to him after he killed Steele?

Simon watched him, and Jim saw sympathy and understanding in his eyes--and steely determination. "Damn it, Jim," he snapped, "you are not gonna do this."

"Why not?" Jim challenged.

"Because it's the last thing Sandburg would want."

"Steele killed him," Jim explained with exaggerated patience, the way he would to a halfwit.

"Maybe. We don't know that yet. We only have the word of a sadistic killer. Even if it's true, do you think Sandburg would want his death to drive you over the edge, to destroy you, destroy your career, destroy your humanity? It would break his heart if you went after Steele on a crazy vendetta, and you know it."

Jim glared at Banks for an endless moment, then his shoulders sagged. Damn it, Simon had chosen the only possible argument that had a prayer of working.

But if he couldn't avenge Sandburg, what did that leave him? Nothing, only the emptiness of his life, the knowledge that Sandburg had died because of Jim, that if he had never known Jim, he'd be alive today.

Sentinel senses and the need for a guide apart, Sandburg had gently eased his way into Jim's life so fully that without him, Jim felt like a part of him was missing. Not that he couldn't function alone, not that they lived in each other's pockets. But knowing Sandburg was there, that he'd be around, that he'd offer his unhesitating support, his endless tests that were designed not to bug Jim but to help him, his teasing violation of the "house rules", his humor, even his irritating habits, the entire package that made up one very stubborn anthropologist/police observer/guide/friend, rounded out Jim's own life.

A line came to him from a song that Sandburg liked on a tape he'd bought at a Science Fiction convention. He'd played the album so many times Jim could sing some of the songs in his sleep. "How can one unpartnered be whole?" That song had been about someone vowing vengeance, overthrowing the rules of his society to ride out and seek revenge. Jim had always considered it a bit over the top, but now he understood where the singer had come from. The urge to "ride out at dawn while the sun's in the sky so the buzzards can see where the bodies will lie" was so strong that only Sandburg's imagined reaction restrained him.

If he killed Steele in cold blood, he would violate Sandburg's memory.

He drew in a shuddering breath so deep his whole body shook with it, and blinked his burning eyes. "By the book," he vowed coldly. "By the book, sir." He reached for his jacket. "Let's go get him."

Simon's sigh of relief was no less fervent. "I'm with you, Jim," was all he said.

 

*****

 

Blair shivered. Naomi had done it again, set him up, led him on, and then failed him. How could Sinclair know that Blair wasn't his son? Had Naomi's timing been off? Her memory of events? Maybe she'd already been pregnant when she met Jake Sinclair and he knew it. 

Or did Sinclair simply not want him, even here at the end?

It would have been better to leave it, to keep his father's identity a mystery, to live with the belief that Naomi had never told whoever it was, that he hadn't known, that his absence from Blair's life was the result of ignorance rather than deliberate rejection. He felt the rejection now. Sinclair had seemed to approve of him--until he learned the reason for Blair's presence at his bedside. When he'd talked about feeling the baby kick, he'd almost sounded like a father, but he didn't seem to want to claim that baby--Blair.

"Oh, sweetie." Naomi tried to hug him, but he pulled away.

"Wait." It was Kelly Raymond. She gazed at Blair, horrified. "Did you really think Jake was your father?"

"Mom said he might be," Blair admitted reluctantly. He couldn't meet the woman's eyes. He didn't want to face rejection from anyone else today.

Kelly shook her head. "You can't be," she said.

What was so wrong with him that the family would reject him out of hand? "I see that," he said. "Never mind. It isn't important."

Jim would have come down on the woman with spike boots just from hearing the tone in Blair's voice. She must have picked up on his feelings, just as Naomi did, because his mom made cooing noises at his side and patted his arm. Blair straightened his shoulders and tried to stand as tall as Jim. He'd lived this long without a father. Why should it matter if one more person refused to claim him?

"No, please, he wasn't denying you because of you,” Kelly insisted. "He wasn't rejecting you. Jake couldn't have kids. Ever. When he was a little boy, he had some kind of viral infection and it made him sterile."

"Sterile? But Mom said he had a little boy who died...."

"Yes. He and Monica adopted a sweet little Korean boy, Chad. They loved him desperately, but Monica and Chad died in an auto accident when Chad was two. Jake never married again. He always said he'd only loved two women in his life, Monica and Naomi, and that Naomi's time with him had ended. It thrilled him to have you come to his bedside," she added softly to Naomi. "It meant everything, and to see Blair. He knew your name," she said to Blair. "He even said that if things had been different, you could have been his son. He didn't say what he did just now because he wouldn't have wanted you. But he's just not strong enough for emotional scenes, so I brought you out of there. You can go back in after he's had a chance to rest. I hope you will. I know he'll be upset to think he hurt you."

"He didn't," Naomi said. "I did. I didn't know, Blair. He never told me he couldn't have children. The subject never came up."

Blair could understand that. Most guys wouldn't be comfortable admitting such a fact; they'd have to reveal the secret if they planned marriage, but Naomi would never have encouraged Jake to believe she was offering him a permanent commitment.

This hadn't turned out like he had feared. No rejection, just a loss of hope. He could hardly hold it against a dying man that he hadn't had the strength to explain what he meant.

"I'll go back in there when he's rested just to reassure him," he said. He turned to his mother. "Then I'll head back to Cascade. You ought to stay here till the end."

She must have seen determination in his voice, because she nodded. "I will. I'm sorry, sweetie. I never meant this to happen."

No, you just never thought. He didn't say it out loud. Naomi would never change. Blair had learned long ago not to allow himself too many expectations. He loved his mother and he knew she loved him. But if he worried about all her faults and foibles, he'd live in a state of chronic anxiety and disappointment. It wasn't as if he hadn't made a life for himself, the best life he could ever imagine. Sometimes he and Jim bugged each other--they were too different for life to run with utter smoothness 24/7. But Jim would never thoughtlessly let him down the way Naomi did. He might let him down because no one was perfect, not even Jim, but he wouldn't do it because he didn't think. He might screw up under the influence of his sentinel senses as he had done when Alex Barnes had come to Cascade, but that hadn't been a personal, deliberate rejection, and part of it had been Blair's failure to understand where Jim was coming from. Neither of them were perfect and they both made mistakes, but they came through them.

Once I see Jake and tell him I understand, I am so out of here. I'll be home tonight, Jim.

 

*****

 

"They got him." The triumph in Simon's voice as he lowered the cell phone didn't entirely mask the concern he felt for Sandburg. Jim could see just from the way his eyes narrowed behind his glasses that they hadn't found Sandburg yet. "Picked him up leaving the estate. He hadn't expected to be found so quickly. He should have known better than to mess with one of our own."

Jim wished he could tell Sandburg that Simon had called him "one of our own." Sandburg would never let him live it down. He'd revel in it, rub Banks' nose in it--and at the same time, he'd pull that humble expression he got when he realized someone cared about him.

Assuming he still could do any of that.

"He didn't have Sandburg with him?"

"Not a trace. He did have Scott, though. We pulled the car over, the state troopers and a couple of CPD squad cars. He didn't put up a fight. Scott said his lawyers would get him out, but Steele can't even claim that. He'll be back in prison so fast his head will spin."

"Did he say anything about Sandburg?" Jim didn't want to ask that question.

Simon's face darkened. "He just waved his hand at the terrain--it's heavily wooded--and said, 'The body's out there somewhere.' Taggart was all for wringing his neck on the spot, but Connor made him stop. They might get the truth out of Scott. He'll try to plea bargain."

"He'd be an accessory to murder. He doesn't have any leeway," Jim spat. "But we can lean on him."

"That's what I thought. They're taking him to Major Crime. Scott gave a couple of names, trying to cover his own back."

"It's not like we don't know who's who in Steele's organization," Jim replied. "We can pull some of them in for questioning. They might know where he'd put Sandburg."

"We have a warrant. We're searching the estate now. No trace of Sandburg's car yet. Sandburg might still be in the house, and even if he's not, there should be evidence if...." He didn't finish that sentence, but Jim could finish it in his head. He didn't conceptualize the words. If he didn't let himself say them, it didn't have to be true. Steele would lie; that was his nature. He was out for revenge for Jim's testimony. Killing Sandburg would be the ideal revenge, but letting Jim believe he'd done it before the fact was good, too.

If only Jim could think of one believable reason for Steele to keep Sandburg alive....

"Let's go," he said and reached for his jacket.

It was twilight when they left the building, and Jim glanced up and down the street automatically. It wasn't as if he expected to see Sandburg walking toward him. If Sandburg were alive, he was tied up somewhere, very much a prisoner.

But the loft might be under additional surveillance besides the camera set-up they'd busted.

At first, Jim didn't spot anyone. He let his focus sharpen as he gazed up and down the street, then it narrowed in on a late-model Buick down at the intersection of Prospect and Ryan. That was Jack Feretti behind the wheel. He'd been a wheelman for Steele for years. Who was that with him? Looked like Cletus Stout, your run-of-the-mill dumb thug, all brawn, no brain. He could beat the pulp out of someone without breaking a sweat--or caring.

"Couple of Steele's guys." Jim let his gaze pass over them casually. They wouldn't expect to be recognized from so far away in the fading light. They hadn't parked under a streetlight. Were they surveillance? Waiting for Jim to appear? Would Steele's final act be to gun Jim down?

Simon glanced past him. He would have spotted a raised gun even if he couldn't recognize their faces at the distance. "So I see. Shall we pay them a little visit?"

"If we head down there, they'll bolt. We drive. Pretend we didn't notice and mean to drive past, then block them in."

Jim got in the truck and Simon in his own car. The two thugs didn't move, didn't start the car. You'd think they'd want to follow him, but maybe they just expected Jim and Simon to go to the station. Or maybe they wanted to get into the loft when Jim was gone. It didn't matter. Jim accelerated normally until he was nearly level with them, then he jerked the wheel and slammed on the brakes. Simon cut in behind the car and they trapped it neatly. Short of going up on the curb and through the two mailboxes that stood there, or over the top of the Datsun in front of them, they were pinned.

Jim flung himself out of the truck, weapon at ready. "Cascade PD. Freeze!" he barked, conscious of Simon backing him.

Maybe Steele's minions had grown slack and lazy while he was in Starkville. Or maybe they realized they didn't have a chance. They surrendered without a fight. Jim frowned. It was too easy. Were there others, less obvious, who would be free to act once these two were hauled into custody? Or had Steele simply assumed that they wouldn't be spotted? It didn't matter. Maybe they were only here to see who came in and out of the apartment.

Why would that matter? Unless they had meant to follow Jim. Feretti was reputed to be a superb driver. If Jim hadn't spotted him, he might have simply started the car once Jim had passed and followed him. No reason to read anything complex into the surveillance.

As he cuffed the suspects, Jim asked, "What was your job supposed to be?"

The two exchanged a look, then presented stubborn, silent faces. They were more afraid of Steele than they were of Jim. He could change that.

"We've got Steele in custody already, and Scott, not to mention the surveillance team over on Willard. Who else is involved in this?"

"I want my lawyer," Feretti whined. Stout simply looked pigheaded and didn't say a word.

"You have the right to remain silent...." Simon began the Miranda warning. The only weapon they found was Stout's Beretta 9mm. Feretti wasn't even armed.

Jim left his truck and rode with Simon to the station to keep an eye on the thugs.

 

*****

 

Well, this was a fun day--not. Blair sighed wearily. Another half hour and he'd be back in Cascade. It was getting late. Naomi had understood that he felt the urge to leave. She was rather embarrassed that she'd summoned Blair so needlessly and exposed him and Jake Sinclair to a painful encounter. Blair had spoken with the dying man for a few minutes before taking off, reassured him he was sorry about the misunderstanding. Now that had not been a good experience. But Sinclair had been kind enough to overlook the whole mess. Just as well.

Naomi had remained at the hospital, telling Blair she'd wait with Jake until the end and that she might come down to Cascade for a visit when it was over. Blair had a sneaky feeling she wouldn't come. She'd go off to meditate somewhere first. He hoped she would. Naomi had meant well. That was the trouble; she always meant well. But she meant well without thinking. Blair couldn't wait to get home.

Jim would take one look at him and know he'd had a rough day. He might not wallow in sympathy, but he'd be understanding in his way, offer up the companionship of a ball game on TV and maybe a little gruff teasing, but he'd be watching, making sure Blair was okay. He might even round up some of the guys from Major Crime for a poker game. That would be good, but a quiet evening just hanging out with Jim would be better. Not long now. Not long and he'd be home.

He spotted the car sailing up behind him in the rearview mirror. Why was there was always some idiot who wanted to set a new land speed record, who believed that speed limits were for other people? Let him pass. The Volvo wasn't exactly designed for the Indy 500. He watched it approach with cautious glances. Instead of passing him, it got right on his bumper and tailgated. God, he hated that. If he had to hit the brakes, the car would probably ram him hard enough to make him lose control. The Volvo was a sturdily built car, but it wouldn't react well to being slammed into at high speed. He gestured impatiently for the car to pass.

It pulled out--finally--and drew level with him. He glanced over, expecting to find a drunken teen. Instead, he saw two men with hard faces looking at him. Not a speed demon, then. Someone a lot more dangerous, someone out to make trouble.

Road rage? Been there, done that. He didn't like the idea of being out here alone on the I-5 without backup. Where was a cop when you needed one? I don't like this.

He took careful note of the car. A '97 Taurus. Out here in the thickening twilight it wasn't possible to be sure whether it was a dark blue or a dark green. So. The two guys, then. They didn't look familiar. Were they just troublemakers out to bug a solitary driver? Were they crooks Blair had encountered on a ride-along with Jim? Were they drunk or high? He couldn't tell from the expressions--or lack of expressions--on their faces.

There. They were finally moving on. He heaved a huge sigh of relief. God, he was vulnerable out here. He couldn't even flash a badge, like Jim might have done. Jim always knew the right thing to do, valued doing it. These clowns might have liked the thought of intimidating another driver--and they were doing an awfully good job of intimidating Blair--but they'd never intimidate Jim.

Jim wasn't here, though, and they might come back. His fingers tightened on the steering wheel and he leaned slightly forward, scanning the road ahead for traces of the Taurus.

Ahead of him he saw an overpass, and he got a glimpse of the flash of taillights under it, glittering red then fading as if the other driver had switched his lights off. Bad. That was bad. It wasn't even an exit overpass so he could get off the interstate before he reached them. He remembered that the road curved steeply just beyond, with a drop-off to his right. 

There wasn't much other traffic; rush hour was long over, and even though there were other drivers, none had seemed to be handy to serve as witnesses when the car had paralleled him and nearly cut him off. There weren't that many now. In his rearview mirror he caught the lights of a distant semi. If only he'd been driving a big rig, the Taurus wouldn't have dared mess with him. Too bad the truck was gaining so slowly. Short of stopping and waiting for it, Blair didn't have any options.

Then he was there, swooping under the overpass, and just as he passed the car that waited there--God, it was the Taurus--it pulled in behind him. It took a few moments to gain momentum, then it soared up beside him and pressed closer--forcing him to the shoulder. He doubted the guardrail would hold if he hit it full on.

The Taurus crowded closer.

With the eighteen-wheeler coming up behind him but not fast enough to be more than a distant witness to the chaos that was about to strike, Blair felt his offside tires hit the shoulder. The slight change in pavement texture made the steering wheel buck in his hands.

The road curved away ahead of him and the Taurus surged closer still, no more than an inch from Blair's front fender.

He did the only thing left to him. He slammed on the brakes as hard as he could, and fought the wheel as the Volvo went into a skid.

 

*****

 

Steele sat haughtily in the questioning room, smug and satisfied with himself. Even when the report came in from the forensics search of the estate that there was no evidence of blood anywhere except for some chicken blood in the kitchen along with a dead chicken casually tossed in the trash, and no evidence to indicate that Sandburg had been there--well, except for his laptop in the den--Steele still didn't talk.

"You're lying," Banks insisted. "If you'd cut his throat, you'd still have traces of his blood on you. And you don't."

"You think I did it bare-handed? I had on gloves. Different clothes. I did it from behind. Didn't get any blood on my face and hair. And I dumped the clothes with his body." He angled a speculative glance at Ellison to see his reaction.

Jim found it hard to believe that such a bland, thickset man, with such a round, evidently innocent face could so calmly talk of committing cold-blooded murder. On the other hand, he was already serving a life sentence for murder. He'd probably figure one more wouldn't increase his sentence. Of course this time the judge might go for the death penalty. There was the dead nurse at the hospital, too.

Jim kept his face expressionless, but his muscles tensed and his jaw clenched. The shrewd hazel eyes of the killer picked up on that right away and delight blossomed in them. "Are you suffering, Ellison? Good. After what you did to me, I want you to suffer."

It took all Jim's willpower to keep from going right over the table and beating that smug face into a bloody pulp. Conscious of Simon at his side, he didn't force Banks to restrain him. He simply stood unmoving, trying hard not to explode in several directions at once.

"I want my lawyer," Steele insisted. "I'm not saying one more word without my lawyer."

"You'll have him," Simon said. "But you're going nowhere, Steele, except back to Starkville. If you harmed so much as one hair on Sandburg's head, you'll pay. You can still be sentenced to death."

"At least I'd die knowing Ellison got what he deserved," Steele retorted and folded his arms across his chest. If he'd made a zipping motion across his lips he couldn't have conveyed any better his determination to speak not one more word.

Scott was equally uncommunicative. His lawyer was present and urging him not to answer questions. Was there a Shyster U. out there somewhere, turning out row after row of lawyers ready to defend gangsters? Scott's lawyer, David MacLeish, was a man Jim had encountered before. He came across as noble and virtuous--"even criminals have a right to justice, remember, detective?"--but there was a smugness to the set of his mobile lips, and the suit he wore was pretty pricy. He raked in the bucks from the proceeds of crime. He might be a clever lawyer, but he was a reprehensible human being.

"My client might want to make a deal with you," he suggested.

"What has he got to offer?" Simon asked.

"I said 'might'. He wants to consider the options. He has killed no one."

"He was there," Jim snarled. "He was part of it. He's guilty."

"You only assume he was there, or that he is guilty, Detective Ellison. Your assumption may yet be proven false."

"We have a witness to his involvement," Jim claimed. "It won't look well for him. If he wants to talk, let us know what he's got and we'll decide if it's worth anything."

"Let him know what you have to offer and we'll decide if it's worth him telling," MacLeish countered. "Think about it. Maybe tomorrow he'll be willing to answer your questions."

Did he know the truth about what Steele had done to Sandburg? If he'd been there when it happened, he was at the very least an accessory. He was guilty. Just because he might know where to find the...body-- Jim cut that thought off abruptly. There were searchers out there now. They'd estimated the time Steele would have had if he'd killed Sandburg when he'd claimed to, and search teams had covered all the ground he could have reached already. No trace of Sandburg. Of course Steele might have killed him right away. Jim didn't even know when Sandburg had been snatched. No one had seen him go. His car was gone; they'd removed it, and it hadn't been found yet. They'd taken his laptop. What else had they removed?

Scott watched Jim through his narrow-set eyes, wary and doubtful. He looked like he was ready to talk. When he made an impatient gesture, MacLeish dropped a hand on his shoulder. "Let them stew. Tomorrow they might be more willing to cut a deal with you."

"But...." Scott hesitated. He shot one measuring glance at Jim and wilted slightly under the force of his glare. "I want out of here. Giving someone a shirt isn't a crime. Putting chicken blood on a shirt isn't a crime."

"Threatening to kill someone is a crime. Standing by while your boss commits murder is a crime," Banks reminded him. "Breaking and entering is a crime. Grand theft auto is a crime. We have enough to hold you."

"I'll see about bail," said MacLeish. He rose. "You'll be out of here in an hour."

"His boss's call describing Sandburg's death was recorded," Simon pointed. "I think he may just be too great a threat to risk being out on bail."

"We'll see," said MacLeish stuffily, and breezed out of the room.

When Scott had been returned to the holding cell, Banks turned to Jim. "Why don't you go home, Jim? I'll have surveillance on you tonight in case Steele arranged any unexpected surprises. I'm surprised he pulled this together as well as he did from the inside. I suspect that if his sister had lasted a little longer, the trap would have been even more complete. He hadn't had time to bug your place. He just had to send his people in fast to grab Sandburg. There are bound to be some loose ends."

"I'm going to join the search party," Jim insisted. "I owe Sandburg that."

Banks frowned. "I know you do, Jim. I'll come with you. It's not totally dark yet, but it won't be long. We'll look for him together."

Jim felt a trickle of warmth melt through the ice in his belly. Simon stood by him, and he knew that anyone who could be spared from Major Crime was already out at the site, searching for Blair.

Every minute that he hadn't been found should have given Jim hope, but it didn't. If Sandburg were still alive, he was a prisoner somewhere, maybe not in Steele's hands, but in the hands of Steele's henchmen, who had probably been coached to finish the job their boss had begun. They might have put him in his car and sent it off a back road somewhere.

Another possibility, that Steele had left him somewhere, alone, bound and gagged, and he might not be found in time to save his life, would give Jim nightmares to march alongside the ones of the throat-cutting image that had lodged itself in its brain as Steele spun out his story. The son of a bitch had reveled in it. Jim wanted to storm down to the holding cell, push past the guards, and return the favor. He couldn't, though. Simon had been right. That was the last thing Sandburg would want, not because he wouldn't have hated Steele, but because he wouldn't want Jim to destroy himself.

I don't have to destroy myself, Sandburg. Steele already started the process. If you're dead....

He refused to complete the thought. "Let's go," he said tightly.

Simon clapped him on the shoulder and fell into step with him.

 

*****

 

Jim stood at the sink of the loft, filled a glass full of water, and gulped it down. Night had fallen, deep, dark night, fresh clouds piling in from the ocean, heavy with the promise of rain. The tracker dogs were still out there, trying to pick up Sandburg's scent, but Simon and Joel Taggart had finally removed Jim bodily. Even with floodlights, dogs, and a huge contingent of police and volunteer searchers, there was no trace of Sandburg. The house had been searched again. Someone had even consulted an architectural expert to determine if the place possessed any secret panels. Nothing had turned up.

Jim couldn’t help wondering if that meant Steele had kept Sandburg somewhere else entirely. Surely he should have picked up some clue, some indication that Sandburg had been at the house, a lingering scent of his herbal shampoo, the coppery tang of his blood. There had been nothing. Steele might have called from here, but he could have killed Sandburg right after the abortive phone call and then retreated to the house for its links to the surveillance site.

Steele wasn’t talking, and Scott hadn’t opened his mouth yet. The house and grounds were the only location they had. If only there had been the slightest sensory indication this was the right place…. 

"I can keep going," Jim had insisted to Simon at the site. "I can track in the dark. It's not like I can't see the evidence." If not in the house itself, Sandburg might have been killed somewhere on the grounds.

Simon had held up a hand to hold Taggart back. "No, it's not, Jim, but if you want to reveal that you're a Sentinel to anybody who takes five minutes to think, you've found a good way of going about it."

"That doesn't matter. I don't want the damned senses. What good were they when Sandburg needed me? What good will they be now? I might as well forget they ever existed. They shut down before. They can shut down again. Without Sandburg to coach me through them--"

"Jim, listen. It's too soon. You don't even know Sandburg isn't safe somewhere and that’s why you can’t sense anything here. Scott may tell us that in the morning. We may have to plea-bargain with him to find out. Wait till we know. You might need your senses to find him, and they work a lot better when you're not exhausted. Somebody'll talk. The surveillance crew, Feretti or Stout, Scott. Steele won't. The bastard's enjoying himself too much, but we'll check out anybody connected with Steele. Don't give up on the kid, Jim."

"Yeah." Jim's voice was gravelly and tight. Simon was right. He couldn't give up on Sandburg, not until he knew one way or another. He nodded once to agree to leaving, even though it felt wrong. He wasn't finding Sandburg. Steele had been cleverer than he'd wanted to admit. Claiming Sandburg was out here was probably one more lie. Tomorrow he'd find out. If Scott wouldn't talk.... Maybe Jim should go back and talk to him again tonight. Bail had been denied.

Simon and Taggart had brought Jim back to the loft--the empty loft. No trace of Sandburg, nothing but the faint, lingering essence from earlier in the day, when he had still been here, still been safe, still been alive. He should have sensed something like that at the house, but he hadn’t. They might never find Sandburg.

Jim gulped the water, then went into Sandburg's bedroom and sat wearily on the bed. He ached with fatigue and misery, and he couldn't think past sitting there. Sandburg's possessions spread out around him, full of the essence of his friend, the familiar clutter of his guide's bedroom. His tribal masks, his endless stacks of books, the patterned bedspread.... It wasn't right that Sandburg wasn't here in the center of it, burning his scented candles, playing tribal drumming music to meditate by, scheming and dreaming up new tests to drive Jim nuts as they taught him how to control his sensory abilities.

Jim grabbed Sandburg's pillow and pulled it against his chest, his arms wrapped around it tight. He could smell the herbal essence of Blair's shampoo. It was that heightened sense of smell that made his eyes sting, he told himself as he blinked the moisture away, then he groaned and tightened his arms convulsively.

Sandburg had never deserved this. He deserved to come strolling into the loft with a long involved tale about some lost tribe or to brag about a girl he'd met and impressed at the university. He'd stand there, his very hair crackling with excitement and rattle off an endless spiel that Jim would tune out, picking up a key word here and there so he could mutter appropriate responses. Sandburg would complain about the unhealthy food Jim ate and fix himself some bizarre thing made of twigs and tofu.

And he'd be there for Jim, the way he always was when Jim needed him to be. His very body language spelled out the commitment he'd made to his friend. Ready and eager for each new experience, he'd stand up to Simon, hold his own against any ribbing the detectives at Major Crime gave him. He'd fitted in there so much better than Jim had ever believed. Right now, the friends he'd won in the department were out there looking for him, claiming him as one of their own. Who'd have thought he'd make himself so indispensable there?

So indispensable to Jim....

The sound of a key in the lock made Jim bolt to attention. He flung the pillow aside and leaped to his feet. Sandburg's keys hadn't been found; that meant Steele's guys had them--they might have needed them to take the car--or that they were still on Sandburg's...body. Why hadn't the patrolman Simon had arranged to sit out in front noticed somebody coming in?

Jim drew his service revolver and edged over to the door to Sandburg's bedroom, glad he hadn't bothered to turn on any lights. He'd get the drop on the son of a bitch, find out where Sandburg was.

"Jim?"

The call blindsided him. Of all the people he might have expected to walk into the loft.... It wasn't real. It couldn't be. His senses had gone haywire; he was hearing Sandburg where Sandburg couldn't be.

But he stepped out of Sandburg's room still holding the gun just as the lights came on, revealing Blair Sandburg, alive and breathing, backpack on his back, blinking at the light. For a second, Jim and Blair faced each other across the width of the living room, and he saw Blair's eyes grow huge in an already-white face as he registered the gun. Both hands came up in a familiar pacifying gesture. "Easy, Jim, it's me. It's okay, you can put the gun down now. I know I'm back early, but oh, man, what a day this has been." His eyes narrowed and his voice modified into that soothing tone he used when Jim's senses spiraled out of control. "Jim, it's okay. Put the gun down, man."

"Sandburg?" He fumbled out the name in utter disbelief. Blair stood just inside the door, not a mark on him except for a couple of band-aids on his left hand. He wore lines of strain on his face, and his taut muscles spoke of tension, but that could have been from walking into his own home and finding himself looking down the barrel of Jim's gun.

The gun.... Jim set it aside and lunged at Sandburg, who halfway flinched at the stampeding charge. Jim grabbed him, yanked him in against his chest, and hugged him with all his strength. "Sandburg. Thank God. You're alive. I thought...." He couldn't go on. For the moment, it was enough to have Sandburg back, to have his friend and guide safe and home where he belonged. The anguish, rage, and despair trickled away, leaving him shaken and spent, with no more energy than he needed to hang on. He quivered with the strength of his relief as his world righted itself.

Blair made a surprised sound, then relaxed into the hug and grabbed Jim back as if he needed it as much as Jim did. If he noticed Jim was shaking, he didn't say anything, probably because he was quivering a bit himself. "Oh, man, Jim, somebody tried to run me off the I-5 on the way back."

"What?" Jim drew back far enough to look him in the eye and stared at him in disbelief. "Are you okay? Are you hurt? How did you get away?"

Jim's concern brought warmth into his eyes. "I've been riding with you for the past three years, man. I've picked up a few tricks. I knew just when to hit the brakes. They went sailing off past me, tried to compensate, skidded off the road right through the guardrail, and made friends with a tree." He shuddered. "A trooper on an overpass saw the whole thing. I've been sitting up there beside the road answering questions for hours. I don't know who those guys are or what they had against me, or if they were just drunk and hated Volvos, but they're in the hospital now with a lot of broken bones." Sandburg shivered. Jim could feel the tremor vibrate through both of them.

"They weren't chasing you because you got away from Steele?" Jim asked. He held Blair at arm's length to study him for hidden wounds.

Blair's mouth dropped open and he stared at Jim blankly. "Who's Steele?"

Jim stared at him, then it dawned on him that Sandburg might never have heard the name of his captor. "Come on, Chief, he's the guy who snatched you."

Blair took an involuntary step backward and stared at Jim as if he'd lost his mind. "What do you mean, snatched me? Nobody snatched me. Didn't you get my note?"

"Note? What note?" There was something upside down here.

"When Mom called, I wrote you a note." Blair glanced over at the table and blinked in surprise not to see it there. "I went up to Seattle. Mom had one of her weird things going. Oh, man, Jim, it was rough."

Jim scanned his face. No trace of anything but distress over Naomi, and distress over Jim's concern. He didn't look like a man who had been kidnapped. "I got home, the place was trashed, there was a kitchen towel with your blood on it, and Jack Steele phoned. I'd arrested him before I met you, and my testimony convicted him. He broke out of prison and said he'd taken you and planned to torture and kill you to pay me back."

Sandburg stared at him with his mouth hanging open for five whole seconds. "You thought I'd been taken?"

"He called back when we arrested the team who had a surveillance camera aimed at the loft--and he said he'd...."

"He'd what, Jim?"

Jim didn't know what he had to shake about now. It was over and Sandburg was fine. He hadn't even been a prisoner. Steele must have found the note and thought he'd make Jim suffer. That meant the guys in the car on the I-5 had probably been working for Steele, trying to find Sandburg to make it all real. They'd have known from the note where he'd gone. God, Sandburg was out there in danger that Jim had never even suspected. They might still have grabbed him, or forced him into a tree. Reaction hit Jim hard and he whirled away, cold and quivering. "He told me he'd cut your throat." The words forced their way out past numb lips.

"Cut my...." Blair's voice held a shudder. "Oh, man, Jim. No, I'm fine. The worst thing that happened to me is that I took a chunk out of my thumb with the kitchen knife." He circled around to face Jim and stared at him. All color had left his face. "You thought I was...dead?" he ventured.

"God, Chief.... Simon said he might be lying, that he might keep you alive to use as a hostage but I couldn't believe it. Not the way he hated me."

"Jim." Blair faced him, chin up so he could look Jim in the eye. "I'm fine. He never had me." He grabbed Jim's wrist and pressed Jim's hand against his chest. "Feel my heartbeat. I'm alive. I'm real. It's okay, Jim."

The soothing voice, the familiar thump against Jim's palm, did the trick. He let himself hear the reassuring beat, feel it, breathe in the scent of Sandburg, focus his gaze on him. Senses at full, he practically imprinted Blair on his consciousness. Alive. Free.

Sandburg's eyes lingered anxiously upon him. "Okay, Jim?"

"Getting that way," Jim admitted. He wasn't sure he wanted to let Sandburg out of his sight. How could the kid be such a trouble magnet even when he wasn't really in trouble?

Hell, yes, he'd been in trouble. The guys in the car must have been Steele's men, out searching for him to make Steele's threat real. Were there more of them, or was that the lot? He'd find out for sure in the morning. In the meantime, he'd better arrange for those two to be under police guard in the hospital. Tomorrow they could figure out what the appropriate charges against Steele and company were, because the fact that they hadn't actually grabbed Sandburg didn't mean they hadn't broken any number of laws. If the guys in the car were Steele's boys, attempted kidnapping, even attempted murder, were right up there in the charges. Conspiracy.... Hell, Jim could think of a good number of possibilities. Steele's people wouldn't walk. Steele himself would go right back to Starkville, where he'd probably go into solitary. There'd be new trial for the murdered nurse at his sister's hospital. The death penalty? Jim liked that idea.

But first, he'd better let Simon and the rest of them at Major Crime know that Sandburg was alive and safe.

"I shouldn't let you out of my sight," he muttered as he went to the phone.

Blair watched him. It didn't require a Sentinel to feel the anxious eyes on his back. "Okay, Jim. Does that mean you'll come to all my lectures on Monday? There's a great one on cultural cross-pollination...."

Jim rolled his eyes. "Don't push it, Sandburg." he said, but he couldn't keep the relief out of his voice.

 

*****

 

Simon had demanded to talk to Blair, and Sandburg had ended the call looking both delighted and humble. "He missed me," he crowed. "Simon missed me."

"Don't remind him about it when you see him," Jim cautioned, smiling.

"Are you kidding? I can't wait."

"So what did Naomi want?"

Blair's face fell. Damn it. Jim shook his head. He should have expected Naomi Sandburg to cause her usual brand of trouble.

Blair hesitated. "I guess it wasn't anything, really, and compared to what you went through it wasn't so bad."

Knowing Naomi, that wasn't necessarily true. "Come on, Sandburg, what did she pull this time? Want a beer?"

"Definitely," Sandburg decided. "Herbal. He stared for the kitchen and Jim went along with him. "She wanted me to meet my father--on his deathbed."

"God, Sandburg, your father! I'm sorry." Shit. That was a nasty one.

"He wasn't my father. Naomi was wrong." Sandburg shivered. "But he was a nice guy, Jim, even if he wasn't my father. Naomi's still up there. She'll probably come down and visit for a few days when it's over."

Jim had a feeling that wasn't the whole story, but from the look on Sandburg's face that was the most he would get without encouragement. Whether Sandburg didn't want to dump anything else on him after Stark's fun and games or whether it was too private even to share with Jim, his face closed up a little. Still, Jim hadn't told him yet that he'd wanted to go after Steele and kill him in cold blood. He thought he'd have to work up to admitting that one. But he'd seen that expression on his guide's face before, and he didn't like it.

"Come on, Sandburg, I can read you like a book. What aren't you telling me?"

Jim pulled out a couple of cans of beer and passed one to Sandburg. They didn’t bother with glasses. When Blair had popped the top, he finally turned and looked at Jim. "Nothing, really. It was just--I just assumed...."

"Come on, Sandburg, spill it."

"When Naomi explained why I was there, he said he wasn't my father. I thought he just didn't...."

Didn't want me. It was as clear as if Sandburg had spoken the words out loud. Jim could have told him that there were worse things than having no known father. Sometimes having an unsatisfactory one hurt worse. But to be rejected out of hand.... The guy would have been a bastard of the first water not to want Sandburg for a son. "Guy had no taste," he muttered.

Blair's eyes warmed. "It wasn't that, though. He just couldn't have kids, never could. Naomi just assumed...." His brow furrowed. "A lot of assuming going on today. I assumed he didn't want me. She assumed he was my dad. You assumed I was...." He didn't finish that sentence, and Jim was glad. Even now, he didn't think he could bear to hear the words "Sandburg" and "dead" in the same sentence.

"Yeah, well...." That came out awkwardly. "Damn it, Chief, let's not pull a humble number here, not after the way you were gloating about Simon. Where's that amazing ego of yours?"

"Oh, yeah, I'm a great guy, Jim." Blair gazed up at him, and he must have seen that even if the assumed father wouldn't have wanted him that he had a place here. Jim didn't even have to say it. They stared at each other unspeaking for a long moment, and for both of them, the world resumed its normal path through the sky. Blair's eyes promised understanding of Jim's torments and a willingness to listen when Jim was ready to talk about it. Just knowing he was here, safe, well, made all the difference.

"Great guy?" Jim countered. "You left a knife in the sink, Sandburg. Books all over the table out there." He waved a mock-aggrieved hand in the direction of the living room. "The house rules are there for a purpose, Chief."

"Yeah, to raise your blood pressure. Come on, Jim, can you spell 'anal'?" He held up his palm to display the two band aids. "I was wounded, remember? Is this all the sympathy I can expect?"

"Pretty much, yeah," Jim said. But he was grinning as he rumpled Blair's hair.

"Not the hair, Jim," Blair wailed, but the tone of his voice couldn't mask the huge grin on his face. "Not the hair."


End file.
